Foo’s men set up stakes under the foundations and ripped them out. “Push, men!” The small bastilla tipped over and crashed into a thousand smithereens.
“Okay, we’re going home. And tell the trappers they can move back into the pass to get their catches.” It was probably his extra caution talking, but Foo thought he saw a bit of movement to the west. Ben noticed his apprehension. “Maybe I should open up a round or two into the bush, sir?” He asked.
“No,” Foo replied, “This is a covert mission, in case you’ve forgot. There’s Imperius men out there, searching for ghosts. Let’s move out before they get back.” And so Foo’s musketmen reported home.
The wagon carrying Jacen Nelar rolled through the foot deep mud on the side of the road. He could have asked for banners and trumpets, so people would move out of his way and not drive him off the narrow path, but he never bothered. There was no way the wagon was moving anymore, so he got out and walked the last half mile to town. The sight of it brought a wide smile to his face.
Home. It rose from the surrounding country like a new plant, crawling with people, Battered signs announced the keeps and stores, people ran about even today in everything from tightly woven wool smocks to dyed cloth dresses and suits. The government building, looking a bit worse for the wear, was no sight different from the rest of the town. Other provinces might announce wherever their governmentwas with towers and golden gutters, but not them. Well, except for the Executory House. It was made of marble. But, that was halfway across Merkan.
Jacen ducked to avoid hitting his head as he entered the building and called out. General Poff, in his old blue veterans uniform, came into sight and ran down the stairs. “Well, Mr. Naler! It’s good to see a friendly face around, when you’ve got such a lonely job as this. Got any news?” Jacen thought for a moment.
“Only old news, my friend. That new bill, and a few others of similar kind, are now in action. The end of the official empire is close at hand.” “I say, what are you talking about?” “Mm, indeed. And we have to be ready. Scribe!” “Oh, he left a couple of minutes ago to get the coffee. Don’t worry, I’ll do it myself. Okay, start dictating your record.” “The 5th week of December, in 9999 years since the creation of the empire, be the end of the empire as we know it. Merkans of loyalty should then prepare to stand on their own, and against all others, for their own survival.”
“Got it. Heavans, what convinced you so of this. You’re our representative, not our leader!” “Nevermind. But when the scribe gets back, tell him to send a letter ahead of me to the executor to try to cut down on our corn export dependency. Store it instead to feed a bigger military! It’s our one dependency to the rest of the empire, and I don’t want it hurting us. Good bye, and say hello to the missus for me.”
"The beauty and genius of a work of film
may be reconceived, though its first material expression be destroyed; a vanished fiction
may yet again inspire the screenplay-writer
; but when the last individual of a race of living directors, of artists,
breathes no more, another heaven and another earth must pass before such a one can be again." -William Beebe, modified in memorial of the twentieth century
Su'cuy, vod, kar'laylirdarasuum me'suum!
Star Wars: The Plastic Director's Cut!